


Aeternum Tua

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gen, Humor, Romance, Time Travel, canon-divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 20:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: *AU* Emergency use of a Time Turner at the wrong place [and time] tangles the artifact's magic with the energy of the tesseract, pulling Hermione to a WWII HYDRA facility, and into the life—time and again—of James Buchanan Barnes. Having no control over when she'll appear, or for how long, she can only hope to find a solution in the moments she shares with him. SPORADIC UPDATES





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes:
> 
> 1-A) This fic is a canon-divergent for Harry Potter, and AU for Marvel (meaning Bucky's storyline is not dependent on/divergent of any particular MCU film plot). Some elements from the canon storylines will still have taken place/be present, others will not. The specifics will become clearer as the story progresses.
> 
> 1-B) What canon elements will be used in this fic are based in MCU, rather than the MARVEL comics, and there is some discrepancy in the films as to the length of time between Bucky's capture and Bucky being thought/declared killed in action (it's indicated as both 1944 and 1945 in the films). For story purposes, we're going with 1945, giving me 2 years of time to work with between his capture/initial experimentation and when he fell from the train to his [at the time] assumed death.
> 
> 2) As with all my fics, the status of this story is Updated Sporadically, because of both the number of fanfictions I have, and a need to split what writing time I have between fanfictions and novel work.
> 
> 3) Very loosely inspired by the time travel element presented in Twelve Monkeys (film, not television show).
> 
> [If you're new to my work, and enjoy this chapter, please be sure to pop on over to my FFN profile and check out my story list for any of my other crossovers that might catch your fancy ;D]
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Any affiliated characters or canon components are the property of their respective creators, and franchise owners.

**Chapter One**

Hermione exhaled sharply, giving her head a shake as she crouched down, looking for Harry amid the smoke and chaos. There wasn't much time, they needed to find an exit, fast—and not the one she thought he might suggest.

"Harry?"

"Hermione!" His shouted voice came from somewhere behind her.

Whirling on her heel, she started blindly in his direction. She nearly darted past him, but he caught her at the last moment, slinging a hand around her elbow and pulling her into the alcove where he was hiding.

The witch bit back a surprised yelp as she skittered backward, crashing into the wall beside Harry with a loud smack that was luckily buried beneath the din.

"Ow!" Hermione reflexively bowed forward pressing a hand to the small of her back.

"Sorry," he said with a shake of his head that was both apologetic and exasperated.

Harry ducked his head around the bend in the wall, trying—just as she had moments ago—to see through the mayhem of the WWII-era Muggle military facility coming down around them. Or, rather, what was left of one, anyway. The place had been a charred, antiquated heap, fortunate to still be standing, long before they'd arrived there earlier in the evening.

_Go to Austria,_  Kingsley said . . . .  _You two have been_ so _bored since apprehending the last of the fugitive Death Eaters. Dark wizards poking about outdated Nazi-occult technology seems just the sort of case that's up your alley,_  he said.

Groaning, Hermione proved she was thinking along the same, unhappy lines as she asked, "When we get back to England, do you want to give the Minister a right, swift kick in the bollocks, or shall I?"

Shrugging, Harry gave a sideways nod. "I'll cast the sticking charm to hold him down, you kick him."

"Joking aside," she said, leaning around him to look, as well, "we need to find a way out of here. I don't think apprehending anyone is in the cards, this time, Harry."

He groaned and rolled his eyes. "Shit, you're right. Of course, you're right. So much for my perfect record."

Mimicking his gesture, she shook her head. But, she'd spotted an exit—anything to keep them from using the emergency route. They could always Apparate, she supposed, but then, neither of them were familiar with the area, at all. That severely limited their chances of being able to Apparate some place near enough that the travel wouldn't injure either of them. She settled back against the wall, once more, uncertain where, exactly, their quarry had vanished to, and untrusting of the notion that they'd simply left.

"Okay, there's a window on the far-right corner of—" A loud crash cut into her words.

The pair exchanged a quick, crestfallen look before they both leaned around to look toward the area Hermione'd just mentioned. A portion of the ceiling had collapsed, the flaming mass of rubble blocking their exit.

"Just our luck, isn't it?" Harry sighed.

As Hermione opened her mouth to respond, someone shouted out to them. "You're really so desperate to catch us you're willing to die here?"

Once more, witch and wizard ducked out to see the center of the room. A pair of robed figures stood amid the wreckage and fire and smoke.

"Come out and face us. Better to die fighting than choking to death, don't you think?"

And beyond them . . . .

"There's a door, and they're _deliberately_  blocking—" Hermione threw her arm over her face, covering a sudden fit of coughing.

"He's right about one thing," Harry said with a shake of his head. "If we don't get out of here, soon, the smoke, alone, will kill us. We could take them, I'm sure of it, but we might not have the time to engage them  _and_  get out alive."

"All right, fine," she said through gritted teeth. "But I don't like this."

He nodded as she tugged the long, gold chain out from beneath her shirt and looped it around his neck. "I suppose we go just far enough back, we can catch them before they start this chaos."

"Sounds good. So that'd be . . . couldn't have been more than an hour, so only one turn."

As she gripped the dial on the Time Turner, the tip of a wand appeared, aimed straight at them. Harry responded, first, striking before the other wizard managed to get off a spell. The hurried footfalls of the man's partner met their ears.

"Come back for me."

"What?" Hermione demanded, but Harry had caught her off-guard, speaking as he moved—he'd slipped out from beneath the chain, his free hand nudging hers to turn the dial.

"Harry,  _no_!"

In a blink, time was whirling backward around her. But something was wrong. As the sound of her own shriek died in her ears, she couldn't make sense of the strange blueish hue the rewinding of time had taken on.

And she'd felt the dial turn at Harry's prodding. He'd only pushed her fingers to turn it once. Somehow, the actions of one hour earlier came and went, and time was still unwinding.

In an oddly Muggle fashion, Hermione shook the artifact and slapped it against her palm, trying to get it to behave. Fat lot of good that would do her, she knew, but she was desperate.

Both she and Harry had noted the place had felt  _off_ —perhaps that was some effect of the _outdated Nazi occult-technology_  that had lured the Dark wizards they were pursuing to this desolate location. She'd never heard of something powerful enough to interfere with a Time Turner, but it was possible that whatever caused that unsettling sensation had also caused a problem with the artifact. If they'd had time to actually find what those fools had been searching for, this could've all been avoided.

Time was still moving, even as she tried to consider how this was happening. Honestly, the dizzying movement of time—lots and lots of nothing but day melting into night for several years, it seemed—was starting to nauseate her.

A sudden bright flash forced a startled gasp from her. An explosion had torn through this place. It  _was_  a wonder it was still standing back, or maybe that was forward, in the twenty-first century.

Then the blooming light and pulse of the explosion ebbed, drawing away like an awkward special effect.

The whirling finally ceased and Hermione was surprised she was still standing. She was so relieved to be out of the vortex, her knees nearly buckled.

But she didn't have time for relief, or panic, or anything but finding out when she'd ended up. Panic could wait.

Griping her wand tight, she listened to her surroundings for a time—there was the shuffling of papers, and someone muttering to themselves. Was he speaking with a Swiss accent?

Shaking her head, she peeked out around the bend in the wall. A short, round man was stuffing files into a case in a rather apparent hurry. There was a small bank of monitors and odd devices in front of him.

He looked  _shifty_ , though. She suspected revealing herself to him would only bring more trouble for her. The rest of the room seemed empty, save for that console. Maybe one of those monitors would have a readout of the date.

The man whirled on his heel and rushed through the room toward the exit. He certainly was a spry little man.

Biting hard into her bottom lip—this could be a really bad idea, but it was the only option she had—she darted out from the alcove and made a beeline for the monitors. He was so distracted with fleeing that he didn't notice her as she slipped into view, practically on his heels for a moment, there.

Even as she neared the console, she could tell the technology was strange. Not quite like anything she'd seen in reality, it was more like something out of a film. Outdated, yet high-tech, at the same time. Probably precisely the sort of thing that would be considered Nazi technology.

Frowning, she looked from screen to screen. No such luck on the date, but now she had a sinking feeling she knew why that man had been in such a hurry. Just as there had been utter chaos in her own time, so too, was utter chaos happening right now. Utter chaos leading to the explosion she'd witnessed in reverse.

She had to get out of here.

In a scramble, she put away her wand and started looking about the desk for any scrap of information the man might've missed. Nothing atop the desk before the monitor bank, and she'd no idea how to operate the antiquated computer.

Wrenching open a desk drawer, her heart sank. Still nothing, and she didn't have time to . . . . A slip of paper was wedged in the corner.

It tore as she pulled it free, depriving her of whatever message might've been on the paper—was it a telegram? She knew the military of various countries had still communicated via telegrams as late as World War II, and given the look of this place, she was betting this particular missive was quite recent.

The date was clear on the ragged corner of paper pinched between her fingers. Despite both her hunch and all visible evidence, it was not until she read the year that she thought her heart might stop in her chest. "1943?"

_Again, no time to panic, Hermione!_  Maybe that's what the strange tugging sensation in her solar plexus was just now—her body begging her to be allowed to go into panic mode.

There was chaos all around, she could hear fighting and commotion and shouting voices filtering toward her from some distance. Everything had happened so fast, she was certain it hadn't even been a minute since that little man had toddled out of the room.

Surely no one would notice if she slipped out amid the tumult already going on. She winced as she started toward the door, that pulling sensation getting stronger.

Yet, the run Hermione wound herself up for never happened. Nearing the door, she spotted a old-fashioned hospital bed—really, who was she kidding?  _Everything_  there was old-fashioned. Before she could even wonder what the hell it was doing here, she saw the man strapped to it.

That other man had just left him here? Maybe he was dead.

But if he wasn't . . . ?

Groaning at herself, she swiveled on her heel, heading to the man's side, rather than continuing out the door.

She rubbed at the center of her chest with her left hand, hoping to ease the bizarre sensation. With her right, she checked the pulse in his throat.

Slow, but steady.  _Good_ , Hermione thought, ignoring another wash of poorly timed relief.

She looked to the straps pinning him to the bed. Maybe he was dangerous? Oh, that didn't matter; she couldn't leave him to die!

As she slipped her fingers around the straps, looking for a way to open them, he muttered something. And Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin.

Bracing her palms on his arm as she caught her breath, she said in a hissing whisper, "Don't do that! You scared the life out of me!"

"Sor—sorry," he said, though his voice was weak. Once more, he started mumbling. Was he still asleep?

Oh, someone who'd apologize to a stranger couldn't be _so_  terrible. Maybe if she got him to wake up—damn bloody uncomfortable feeling in her chest that would not leave her be!—they could help each other escape this place.

She started tugging at the straps binding him. "Sir? I need you to wake up,  _please_!"

He opened dazed eyes in a series of drowsy blinks that seemed to require a great deal of effort. "'Sir?'"

It was an odd moment, but it somehow made her pause, mid-motion. She tried not to notice he actually had rather lovely blue eyes—this was  _not_  the time. "Well, I don't know your name. Are you all right? What happened to you?"

And damn if that feeling in her chest wasn't getting worse. Like a thrumming that was speeding up to an unbearable rhythm.

"My name's—my name's Bucky." His voice was weak, unsteady. "I don't know what happened."

Licking her lips nervously, she glanced about. Were those footfalls coming down the corridor toward them?

They _had_  to move!

She drew her wand to deal with the straps. "Bucky? My name's Hermione, and I'm going to—"

Before Hermione could finish her sentence, the room, and the man with the lovely blue eyes, were ripped away from her. Forcing a gulp down her throat, she looked to what was going on around her.

She thought it might well be the strangest thing in the world to stand perfectly still in the center of this vortex of blue and white crackling energy. But . . . the tugging in her solar plexus has stopped.

It had stopped the moment the vortex had swallowed her up.

How was she ever going to get back to Harry like this?

* * *

Bucky blinked in confusion. He'd just watched a woman vanish into thin air, right before his eyes.

He must be delirious.

Letting his eyes drift shut, he started muttering to himself, once more. He wasn't even sure what the hell he was talking about, come to think of it.

He could hear the commotion outside, and footsteps rushing into the room.

"Bucky?"

He was so convinced the familiar voice was another hallucination that, even as he let his eyes open, he kept on mumbling. Trying to ground himself, trying to give himself something to hang on to.

He saw Steve. He heard Steve's voice . . . . Yet, it wasn't until he was freed and Steve was helping him stumble down the corridor that he believed any of it was actually happening.

Steve Rogers being nearly an entire person larger than he'd been the last time they'd seen each other certainly hadn't helped Bucky feel like he had a good handle on the situation.

Or his sanity.

It also didn't help that, once he'd had a little time to recoup, and they were all safely in a London bar, that beautiful dame in the red dress had utterly ignored him. She'd been gorgeous, sure, but it hadn't really been until he'd heard her speak that his interest had truly been piqued.

It had been clear she only had eyes for Steve, but Bucky couldn't help at least trying. Since when had he had a thing for British girls?

He knew he was being ridiculous. The entire way back home, he'd reprimanded himself for trying so hard to remember the girl he'd imagined before Steve had rescued him.

She'd spoken with a British accent, hadn't she? Leave it to him to imagine a weird name like Hermione.

_Give it a rest Buck_ , he thought. They were back home—familiar sights and sounds. Maybe the medics were right, and he could do with a little more rest before whatever crazy mission Steve was about to drag them on.

Sighing, Bucky unlocked the door to his apartment. He had to admit, as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, it felt really good to be home. Dropping his duffle, he flicked on the light and set down his keys.

He inhaled deep and let out a sigh. He could smell cleanser in the air. Mom must've come by and cleaned the place for his arrival. He'd have to stop by his parents' house tomorrow and visit with them for a bit to thank her.

For now, he just wanted to get some shut eye.

* * *

Hermione had gotten so abysmally bored in the center of the vortex, that at some point, she simply sat down. It couldn't have been more than five minutes, she was aware; it was her inability to track time in this setting that made it feel so long. She examined the Time Turner as she tried to make calculations, but the constant swirling around her made focusing so damn difficult.

Then, the vortex vanished.

And she dropped out of mid-air to crash into the floor.

"Bloody hell, not again," she said, coughing out the words as she rolled onto her side and curled up. Twice in one day she'd impacted hard on her lower back. Brilliant.

* * *

The loud bang in the other room startled Bucky, drawing out the soldier in him. Not all his neighbors knew he was back—a burglar probably thought his place an easy target.

Though he wished for a sidearm right about now, he settled for the baseball bat he kept near the front door. Hefting it over his shoulder, he inched across the living room on silent footfalls.

He thought he could hear a whimpering sound. Maybe the idiot who'd broken in had hurt themselves in the dark.

As he neared the doorway, he pressed to the wall and peeked inside. He could make out a small figure on the floor of the room. Brow furrowing, he looked around—he could tell by what light there was filtering in from the living room that none of the windows were broken, or even open.

So, how had they gotten in?

Reaching into the room, Bucky switched on the light. At the flood of illumination, he gripped the bat with both hands, prepared to swing. He was prepared for the burglar to jump up, alarmed at being discovered, but they didn't move. Well, at least no more than the shifting against the floor they were already doing.

"Yeah, you stay right there," he said with a shake of his head. "I'm calling the cops."

Hermione didn't think she'd recognize the voice of the person who'd entered the room, but she had just heard it what only seemed to her like minutes ago.

Painfully turning onto her other side to face the speaker, she lifted her head to look at him. Sure enough, there stood the same man she'd just seen strapped down in that strange facility.

Mirroring his bewildered expression, all she could manage was, "Bucky?"

He tipped his head to one side, not quite believing his eyes—or his ears. Though he refused to slacken his hold on his bat, he stepped closer to her.

The girl winced as she pulled herself to sit up. She moved just as he lowered himself to sit on his heels in front of her.

Bucky gave her a once-over before he found his voice. "Hermione?"

She nodded, relieved when he set down the bat. She didn't know this man from Adam—maybe he was the sort to swing a bat at an unarmed-by-Muggle-standards woman.

He blinked several times in rapid succession, as though unable to process the sight before him. All he was really certain of was that something  _very_  strange was going on. "Who  _are_  you, anyway? How did you get here?"

Hermione sighed—time was not supposed to be meddled with, so going to any Wizarding community to ask for aid was out of the question. She possibly had no choice but to confide in this man. How had she found her way to him a second time, anyway? Time Turners were not capable of moving someone to a different location, and she wasn't certain she'd be able to understand what was happening with only the information currently at her disposal.

There was a loophole or amendment for a situation like this in the Statute of Secrecy, she was sure. There _had_  to be exceptions for when a Muggle was the only person a witch or wizard could possibly turn to for assistance. Although, she imagined it likely included a stipulation about using a memory charm on them afterward.

And if there weren't any such amendments? Well . . . she'd simply arrange a petition to add it in when she got back.

"It's a long story." She tried to straighten up, only to let out a hissing breath from between clenched teeth.

"Are you okay?"

"D'you happen to have an ice pack or something? I'll explain while we tend to what's probably a very lovely bruise on my back."

Bucky climbed to his feet and reached down for her hands to help her up. As she slipped her fingers into his, he was nearly overwhelmed by the relief at how solid and _real_  she felt.

"I thought I'd imagined you," he said, chuckling at himself as he pulled her up to stand.

Hermione nodded. "Ice . . . and a very long story. And a drink, if you've got."

"Are you going to need that, or am I?" he asked as he slipped a gentle arm around her waist to guide her from the room and toward the small kitchen. He thought he was handling the situation—whatever that actually was—spectacularly well, under the circumstances.

Against her own better judgment, she let herself lean against him as they walked. She was in pain, she was sure it was justified. "Pretty sure we  _both_  are."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"I.W. Harper?" Hermione read aloud, turning the gold-labeled bottle of whiskey in her hands. "Well, that's a new one on me."

Bucky gave a sideways nod, twisting up some ice cubes in clean dish towel. "New? That bottle's about 3 years old, just never had reason—or the chance—to open it 'til now." Crossing the kitchen, he pulled up a chair beside her with his free hand. "But, somehow I've got a feeling that's not the weirdest thing you're going to say tonight."

"Oh, I can guarantee it won't be," she said with a laugh as he took a seat.

He chuckled and gave a shake of his head. "Hey, do us both a favor and pour those glasses while I see how bad this is, okay?"

She turned in her chair, putting her back to him. The witch tried not to overthink having her bare skin—and her bra, depending on how high up any bruising might trail—exposed to his gaze. It was her own bloody fault she should feel shy about the simple application of an ice pack, if she just didn't think he was so damned pretty . . . .

And sure enough, he hiked her shirt all the way up to her shoulders.

Wincing, he was grateful she couldn't see his expression as she uncapped the bottle and poured the whiskey. It wasn't exactly the most reassuring reaction to her injury. "Okay, this might not be comfortable."

Hermione couldn't help but jump a little as he pressed the cold bundle against her back. "How's it look?" she asked as she slid his glass back across the tabletop toward him.

Puffing out his cheeks, he exhaled, the sound loud and thoughtful.  _Don't let your eyes wander, Buck, this isn't the time_. "Well, it ain't pretty."

The words were out of her mouth sooner than she could think to stop them. "I'm not sure if I should be insulted by that, or not."

"Oh, I didn't mean . . . you know, I was only . . . ." He laughed and cleared his throat. "You  _know_ I meant the bruise."

"I know, I'm only teasing." She took her first swig of whiskey, sparing a moment to choke back a cough at how rough it was on her throat. "Oh, I'm going to be pissed after two of these, I can feel it, already?"

Bucky tipped his head, catching her gaze over her shoulder. "Going to be what?"

"Sorry, cultural difference, I suppose. It's a British term for drunk."

"Ah." He couldn't help that his attention  _did_  wander while he took a gulp from his own glass with his free hand. "Hmm."

"Hmm?" she echoed as she managed another swig.

"Sorry, I know I probably shouldn't be looking, but I've just never seen a bra like that before."

Hermione arched a brow as she glanced back at him. This was the 1940s, after all, the chance of coming across a racer-back bra that clasped in the front was literally impossibl _e unless_ dealing with time travel.

But the comment caught her attention for another reason, entirely. "Have much experience with women's undergarments, do you?"

He tried to hide a sudden, suspicious flush of color in his cheeks—that clearly had nothing to do with the alcohol—behind his glass as he took a second sip.

"Oh, I see, bit of a ladies' man, then?" She couldn't help a grin as she shook her head. "I suppose I'll have to watch myself around you."

Feigning a wounded expression, he scoffed. "Oh, now that's not fair. I'm a romantic, I swear. I just . . . haven't really found the right girl, yet."

"Oh, please! That is  _such_  a cliché excuse!" She snickered as she took another drink. "There's no such thing as the right person, because  _everything's_  a compromise. Honestly, so many people talk as though the right one is just going to pop up, or fall into your life out of the blue, or something."

He knew she hadn't really thought through what she was saying before she let the words out. Bracing his elbow on the table, he leaned forward, around her just a bit. "You did. You did both those things. First, you 'popped up' in that HYDRA facility, now here you are after 'falling out of the blue' into my bedroom."

"Oh." Swallowing hard, she struggled to maintain eye contact as she tried not to blush at his implication. "I suppose I did, didn't I?"

"But that doesn't make _you_  the right one, huh?"

"I . . . ." After a quiet moment, feeling the giddy rush of butterflies in her stomach and the tingle of goosebumps running along her arms—just from sitting this close to him, bloody hell, she was doomed, wasn't she?—Hermione managed to tear her gaze from his as she forced a nervous giggle. "I'm pretty sure we're sidetracking. I was supposed to tell you my long story, wasn't I?"

Taking a deep breath, Bucky sat back as he exhaled. He knocked back the rest of his glass and then poured them a fresh round.

"Yeah," he said with a nod. He'd known her all of twenty minutes, and he was pretty sure he was already smitten.

Christ, this dame was going to be the death of him, he could see it, already.

* * *

An hour later—approximately, of course, as neither of them were exactly watching a clock—they'd finished one bottle of whiskey between them and Bucky was eyeing her over their empty glasses as he contemplated opening another. The ice had melted into the dish towel, and she rested her chin against her folded arms as she stared back at him. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were rosy from the liquor, and her brown eyes gleamed under the kitchen light.

Her strange story was swirling in his head. Whether the whiskey was making him accept her words so easily, or he just found himself willing to believe her if she'd just told him the sky was green, he wasn't exactly sure.

Yeah, this definitely called for a second bottle.

"So," he said, standing up from his chair—and needing a moment for the room to orient itself around him—he crossed to the kitchen to the cupboard. "You're really not pulling my leg about any of this, are you?"

Sitting up straight, the young woman gave her eyes a hard, slow blink as she shook her head. She turned in her seat to look at him. "If there was something I could make up that would believably explain both my presence at that horrible place, and me dropping in on you so very literally here, then believe me, I'd have already thought of it and told you  _that_ , instead."

Bucky paused midstride in his return to the table as he considered the awful lot of words she'd just spat out. Realizing that made perfect sense he nodded and continued until he reached his chair.

Reclaiming his seat as he uncapped the bottle, he sighed. "I just . . . it's still hard to believe is all. I mean . . . a witch? A witch from the  _future_. That's just . . . it's just . . . ."

"Madness on the face of it, I know." Hermione waited for him to pour the next round—she'd already had way too much, but at this point, she was pretty certain the liquor was the only thing steeling her nerves to keep this conversation going.  _Liquid courage imagine that_ , she thought with an inward giggle. She winced, that damn uncomfortable pressure she recalled from earlier starting in her gut.

She hid the unpleasant expression behind her glass as she took a long sip. "Believe me, if I had any real choice—or any sort of cover story to give that would be plausible, I'd not be telling you the truth."

He looked into his glass, his brow furrowing. "Well, at least you're blunt about preferring to have lied to my face."

The witch set down her glass. "It's not like that.  _God_ , what the hell is that feeling?" She asked that second question of herself in a whisper before she shook her head and went on. "It's pretty much one of our cardinal laws not to tell non-magical folk about us. So, I'm breaking the law to tell you any of this, and I just wish that didn't have to be the way things are. Honestly, I'm really just surprised you haven't asked me to prove—"

Bucky jumped, his eyes shooting wide as she vanished right in front of him.

Swallowing hard, he grabbed her glass, and then the cold, soaked dish towel, assuring himself he hadn't just imagined her presence here. Stupid as he felt, he even ducked beneath the table, needing to check that she hadn't simply slipped out of sight, causing his mind to play tricks on him due to the combination of his inebriated state and her crazy story.

Just as he sat up in his seat, she reappeared. As though she'd never left, except that a faint, blue-white glimmer pulsed around her for half a heartbeat. Strange, he felt like he'd seen light that color before, he just couldn't remember where.

Her eyes were huge and she stared at him in silence, giving her a deer-in-the-headlights look. Hermione held her breath as she darted her gaze about, observing that everything in her vicinity was precisely as she'd left it.

"How—how long was I gone?"

Bucky was certain he mirrored her shocked appearance as he puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. He shook his head. "A few seconds, maybe?"

"Fascinating," she said in a hushed tumble of sound. Though, she was honestly surprised that she hadn't passed out from the mix of liquor with the disconcerting sensation of being pulled into the time vortex. "That's exactly what happened to me that day I found you. I just was gone, and then next thing I knew, I was falling onto your floor. Well, not the literal next thing—the literal next thing was me sitting on my bum in the middle of a swirling pool of pale blue light, but that's hardly worth mentioning, really."

"Yeah, yeah. I could see some of that when you came back, if that's even what we can call that." He hadn't budged since she'd reappeared. Hadn't so much as blinked. His gaze was trained on her, as though waiting for it to happen again.

Crazy, but clearly true, story aside, there went any hopes of seeing if she  _was_  the right one. After all, if she was going to just pop in and out of existence like that—

"I felt the same way earlier," she said abruptly. "Before I vanished the other day, I had this horrible feeling of pressure building up for a few minutes and then I was pulled away from you. When it happened just now, the sensation came on suddenly and I only felt that end part. I think that feeling is some sort of warning, telling me I'm about to get pulled away."

He couldn't deny the timing of her observation was eerie. "So, this is completely random? There's no way for you to predict it other than that feeling?"

"No." She shook her head, sparing a moment to knock back the drink that had been waiting for her. "I've no idea what's causing this, or why I seem anchored to you; I don't even have any way to predict how long I'll be 'gone'. This is so very confusing!"

His brows shot up and his mouth puckered at her sudden increase in decibel level.

Setting down her glass, she sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm just so used to being able to figure things out, or at least know where to find information to help me sort things through, but this? I'm completely clueless here, and it's frustrating."

"Well, um . . . ." He polished off his drink, too, as he shrugged. "I guess, um, I mean, I know I can't really help you at all with this magic stuff, but you're welcome to stay here with me as long as you need. Since, you know, it sounds like you don't really have anywhere else to go."

"Really?"

She looked so surprised by his offer that he couldn't help but chuckle. "Hey, it'll be easy. Apparently, you probably won't even be here half the time."

Hermione uttered a scoffing sound. "You're a funny one, are you? I'm serious. You'd be okay with me . . . sticking about as I try to figure out how to fix this mess I'm in?"

Bucky sat back, holding her gaze for a long and quiet moment. Sure, this was going to be complicated, but the alternative was what? Tossing her out onto the street? She might have magic—and he had no idea what she could or couldn't do with that—but she didn't seem to have any money, she was dressed kinda funny, and she didn't know a single soul.

What the hell else was he supposed to do with her?

"You said it yourself, right? You're anchored to me. So, seems to me, we're stuck with each other 'til you work out whatever's wrong. Just when you start getting that weird feeling, tell me it's happening, so we both know you might vanish any second, okay?"

"Okay." She nodded. It was the most pragmatic, realistic response to the situation, but still, not everyone would've chosen to be kind about it—to not treat her like some sort of burden due to her circumstances. "You're absolutely right, Bucky. I think, however, we should stop drinking now. I'm starting to see two of you."

He arched a brow. It was probably the wise decision to refrain from making any jokes about what he'd do if there were two of  _her_  here. "Yeah, maybe we should call it a night. You'll probably think better in the morning when you've sobered up, anyway."

Hermione stood from her chair, needing a moment to brace herself against the table as she got her bearings. "You're taking this all really well."

"Blame the alcohol," he said with a chuckle.

He led the way through the house, pausing in the small corridor that lead from the living room to the bathroom and bedroom.

When he halted, she pivoted on her heel, the reaction seemingly automatic, to look up at him.

"Um . . . I think I should do the gentlemanly thing, here, and let you take the bed. I'll sleep on the sofa."

Her brows pinched together as she held his gaze. She remembered, then, the era she was in, even if it was completely innocent, a man and a woman sharing a bed was a big deal, wasn't it? And really, with the way they'd been looking at one another all night, she doubted either of them would believe the  _we're adults, we can share a bed without anything happening_ argument.

But she didn't like the idea of being alone just now. Not like this. Not when she could disappear at random and return who knew when.

"What if I promise to keep my hands to myself?" The words had fallen from her lips without thought.

Bucky stared at her as though she'd just spoken a foreign language. "What? Wait . . . isn't that the sorta thing _I'm_  supposed to say to  _you_?"

"Look." She interlocked her fingers in front of her, fidgeting a little. And oh dear Lord, her gums had gone numb. When had that happened? Stupid whiskey. "This isn't easy for me to say, especially not to someone I've only just met, but I'm scared. I really don't want to be alone right now, but I also don't want you to think I'm going to try anything."

He snickered. "Your insistence on that last part is kind of insulting, you know."

Hermione laughed, the sound a drunken sputter more than anything else. "Oh, no, it's not like I wouldn't want to. I mean you are very . . . ." As she'd spoken, his eyebrows had crept slowly higher on his forehead, and she spied a smirk curving his lips. "Oh, shut up. You know perfectly well what I meant."

He laughed once more.

"My point was, I'd prefer if you stayed with me, if you can manage to keep  _your_  hands to yourself, sir."

Nodding, he tipped an imaginary hat and swept his arm out toward the bedroom door. "Now, that's more like it. And I can promise to  _try_."

She hid a smile as she stepped past him and walked down the short corridor. She was grateful he was being so accommodating . . . and perhaps hoping just a little bit that he wouldn't try  _too_  hard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Bucky opened his eyes, surprised he didn't feel the horrible, hazy ache of a hangover. Yet, as he noticed the arm draped over him, he was even more surprised. Looking down at the dainty hand hanging loosely against his chest, he wondered if his shock was because she'd not vanished during the night, or because he was so relieved to find her still there.

Moving delicately so as not to jostle her awake, he turned over beneath the meager weight of her arm. Impossibly, her wild hair had seemed to get even more chaotic as they'd slept, but there was a strange appeal in how the messy golden-brown locks seemed to halo her face.

He simply examined her features for several quiet moments as he thought back on everything from last night. She wasn't from here . . . or, maybe 'wasn't from  _now_ ' was a better way to see it, and she could literally disappear on him at any moment. A witch who'd found her way to him, twice, without even trying.

If he wasn't the one going through this, he wasn't sure he'd believe it.

Still asleep, Hermione shifted closer to him, nestling her head against his shoulder. The affectionate, though probably wholly innocent, gesture prompted a breathy chuckle from him, and he found he had to hold back the urge to drop a gentle kiss on her forehead.

She'd been right. They had managed to share a bed and keep their hands to themselves all night. Well, almost, he thought, though he didn't really count waking to find her arm around him in that sense, given what he knew they'd both meant.

The sound of his hushed laugh in her ear woke her. Blinking her eyes open, slow and reluctant, she met his gaze. "Bucky?" she said after a moment, as though trying to confirm something.

He nodded.

She winced a little. "No offense, but I was sort of hoping I'd imagined this whole thing."

"Oh? You're hoping I was something you could just dream up, huh?"

"Not that I'd have a hard time imagining many a girl dreaming about you," she said, shaking her head against his shoulder as she narrowed her eyes at him, "but I meant the circumstances."

He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. This girl was going to have to stop making it so obvious that she found him easy on the eyes—those sort of observations were capable of sidetracking any attempt at conversation, or thinking  _at all_. "I know, I know. I—"

Someone clearing their throat from the doorway made them both jump. Bucky shot to his feet, ready for a fight—and a bit shocked that he didn't feel disoriented from the sudden movement—and Hermione drew her wand, her aim and her gaze landing unerringly on the source of the noise, though she didn't budge a muscle, otherwise.

There stood a blond man, tall and broad, like Bucky. His blue eyes were wide as he held up his hands, glancing from Bucky, to the girl on the bed, and back. Well, glancing to the 'weapon' she held pointed at him, anyway.

Steve's brows shot up as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Was that a wand? Like . . . a magic wand? Like that Glinda the Good Witch in  _The Wizard of Oz_? And Bucky'd been in a bed with a girl fully-clothed _and_ sleeping above the covers?

What the hell had he just walked in on?

Bucky looked from Hermione to Steve, and back. Holding up his hand, he said, "It's okay. You can trust him." Huh, now that he thought on it, the story behind Steve's growth spurt was probably just as hard to believe as Hermione's whole time-jumping witch thing.

And, hell, he could certainly stand to have someone else knowing what was going on here.

But if he was going to have her feel she could trust Steve, then she needed to know that she wasn't the only anomaly in the room.

Hermione didn't move. Instead, she shifted her attention to Bucky. Only when he nodded, and she noticed his posture had relaxed, did she lower her wand.

"Hermione," he said in a gentle voice, "this is my best friend, Steve. Steve this is Hermione." He decided to take a chance, she could argue with him if she wanted, but he knew there was something there. "She's my girl."

Those chestnut eyes of hers shot wide as she stared at him, a hint of color blooming in her cheeks. In the 1940's didn't that wording mean he was calling her his girlfriend?

She was acutely aware of Steve watching their interaction as though observing animals at the zoo, yet she couldn't pay him any mind, just now. Though she knew her ultimate goal had to be to find a way back to her own time and save Harry—which Bucky understood—she couldn't deny that there was a spark between them.

Couldn't deny that she wanted, very much, to know where this bizarre tie between them—the one that kept leading her back to him, three times, now, which she guessed meant she would keep rubberbanding back to him, wherever he was, until she fixed this mess—could lead. She also couldn't deny his ways with women had her a little cautious, but hadn't he been the one to hint, just last night, that he felt rather sure all signs pointed to her being his 'right person'?

His blue eyes grew serious for a moment as he asked, "Right?" But then that lopsided grin of his curved his mouth.

Hermione pursed her lips, trying to hide a responding smile of her own and failing. "Right."

Returning his attention to Steve, Bucky lifted his brows to offer an eloquent expression as he said, "And we _all_  need to have a talk."

Well, since Bucky had just said 'all', Steve doubted an unexpected pregnancy was the issue. But, beyond that? He couldn't begin to imagine what the  _three_  of them had to discuss. "Um . . . ." He gestured half-heartedly back toward the kitchen. "I brought coffee and sandwiches."

At the mention of food, Hermione noticed she was ravenous. She'd gone this long without eating before, she could only imagine her instances stuck in the time vortex were more taxing on her system than she realized.

She bounced up from the bed, speaking as she crossed the room and slipped through the door past Steve. "Oh, you are a Godsend, you are! I'm  _starving_."

Snickering as he shook his head, Bucky moved to follow her. No doubt there would be more than enough food to spare for her, since he and Steve, alone, could eat enough to feed an entire platoon—that did trouble him, since his own appetite increase hadn't started until after he'd escaped that HYDRA lab, but he hadn't noticed any other changes, so far, so he tried not to focus on things he couldn't do a damn thing about just now.

As he reached the door, Steve gave him a sidelong glance. "She's not . . . ya know, pregnant, right?"

Bucky's brows shot up and he let out a surprised laugh. "No, no. Just . . . no. But we do have a story to tell you, and it's a good one. Oh, and we need to tell her your story, too."

His brow furrowing, Steve turned to watch Bucky walk down the corridor toward the kitchen. " _What_?" he asked in a shocked whisper, but his best friend was already disappearing around the bend in the hallway.

* * *

Though Hermione and Bucky knew they couldn't expect the intervention of one of her trips to the time vortex to back up their story, the witch managed to convince Steve of the sincerity behind their words by making him float off the ground with a flick of her wand, and then Disapparating and Apparating back inside the kitchen in a different spot. Luckily, she hadn't had to explain to Bucky how this was different from her disappearing into the time vortex, as he noted aloud himself that her Apparition didn't come with the odd pale-blue light, and her return from the time vortex was not accompanied by the distinct popping sound that happened when she'd appeared beside the refrigerator just now, her half-eaten sandwich still in her hand.

Steve . . . well, Steve wondered if it was odd that he didn't have more of a reaction to their story, and Hermione's display of  _actual_  magic. But then, with all he'd seen since being selected as the subject of a military experiment, maybe it was just that he'd realized there were many things in the world he had no idea even existed. So, sure, real magic.

As the three of them collectively wolfed down the food and tore through the coffee like it was water, Bucky dug out some old pictures of Steve. Of course, 'old' was a matter of perspective, as they were only from a before he'd enlisted, so perhaps  _pictures of the_  old _Steve_  was a better way to put it.

She let out a short, charming laugh as she looked over the photographs. "Oh my God. That's madness! I mean . . . ." She lifted one picture from the small pile and held it up so she could look at it beside the real,  _new,_ Steve's face. "I can see that this is the same person, but it's just . . .  _remarkable_."

Steve darted a glance at Bucky—Bucky who was watching the girl, the witch, with an obviously smitten expression—before laughing. "This from someone who can do magic and technically hasn't even been born, yet?"

"I suppose that's a good point, but the time I'm from? For all of our advancements in science and technology, experiments like this one are still, largely the stuff of fiction. Magic I understand, the . . . the sheer mechanics of what was done to you boggle my mind."

"You really are something," Steve responded with a nod. Clearing his throat with a second nod, he once more looked at Bucky. "We should get Peggy over here."

Bucky arched a brow. "We're inviting your girl over for what reason?"

Sighing, Steve took a bite of his sandwich—his fourth? Fifth?—chewing thoughtfully before speaking and gesturing in Hermione's direction with his free hand. "She needs clothes, she can't really go around in what she's wearing, and she probably shouldn't be too far away from you . . . . Peggy can come over, get her, um, measurements, and go shopping for her."

Hermione narrowed her eyes in an appraising look as she simply watched Steve for a moment. Wagging her finger at him, she said, "You're a clever one, I like you."

"Hey." Bucky's tone, though playful, was mildly affronted, bringing a laugh out of Steve.

Though, Steve couldn't help but notice—and smile at—the way she reached over, lacing her fingers with Bucky's on the tabletop as though it was the most natural thing in the world while she launched into what seemed an endless series of questions about Steve's experiment and what details they had on Bucky's ordeal in the enemy laboratory.

* * *

Although the girls seemed to get along pretty well—and it was deemed that outside of the four of them no one else could know Hermione's secret, but it would take Steve and Peggy's assistance to help them keep a low profile, given that  _Bucky's girl_  could poof out of existence with no more warning than a troubling physical sensation that predicted her vanishings would strike only based on how hard and fast it hit her—it wasn't long after Peggy had returned with clothes and undergarments for Hermione that trouble started.

" _I'm_ not  _wearing that!"_

Bucky and Steve, playing cards in the living room, both looked toward the bedroom door at Hermione's shrill complaint. They then exchanged a glance and Bucky shrugged as he returned his attention to the game. "I'm not going over there."

"Smart," Steve replied with a snicker.

There was some subdued muttering, one would assume Peggy trying to talk down the other woman's flaring temper, only for another complaint to follow.

_"I don't care! I'll sooner go around_  without  _a bloody bra than wear a monstrosity like that!"_

His brows shooting up, Steve again looked up from the game, this time to catch a glimpse of Bucky's face. Bucky seemed frozen, his widened eyes fixed on the cards in his hand.

"That's some girl you've got." Steve tried not to laugh as he spoke and failed.

Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, Bucky nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

_"Well, why didn't you say so?"_  Though, there had  _seemed_  to be an effort to speak a bit more quietly with that question.

After a moment, Peggy slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her. She came down the corridor and settled beside Steve on the sofa. "She'll just be another minute," she said in a whisper, the bridge of her nose crinkling.

The blond man next to her turned in place to meet her gaze. "What'd you say to get her to, well, to stop yelling?"

She shrugged, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "I informed her that on Friday evening, you and I will be hosting a little get-together—"

"We will?"

Peggy arched a brow.

Clearing his throat, Steve nodded. "We will."

Nodding in return, and ignoring Bucky snickering at the exchange, she continued. "And suggested that what I picked out for her to wear for the occasion won't work well without a proper undergarment, and such was the case with  _most_ of the attire of this time period."

Bucky's brows pinched together. "Okay, having a party, great. What about her whole disappearing thing?"

Peggy nodded again. "She can feel it when she's about to disappear, so that will give you time to get her away from prying eyes. She said she's going to . . . devise a charm, I believe was the term she used? Yes. She's going to devise a charm that will alert you to when she's going to return, so you'll know if you have to get away, again, so she doesn't reappear in the midst of a crowd, or something."

"That sounds smart?" Bucky offered with a wince.

"I know, I know." Sighing, she let her shoulders droop. "But we don't know how long she could be stuck here in this time. Maybe the rest of her life. We can't let her be cooped up here all the time, she's going to need to go out and get used to  _this_ world."

A terrible thought struck Bucky, then. He was already used to the idea that any moment could be their last together, since she could eventually fix the mess she was in and return to her time, but at least he could think she was safe back in 2000s England. If she disappeared on him and popped back up while he was on a mission . . . .

He knew from her stories that she was a warrior of a sort in her own right, but still, the idea of her getting hurt on the battlefield because of  _him_ —

_"All right, so no one laugh, or so help me I'll hit you with the_ worst _stinging hex . . . ."_

All three looked up as the bedroom door creaked open. Out Hermione stepped in a white party dress, her hair hanging in sleek pin-curls down her back and around her shoulders, and an eye-catching red shade of lipstick lighting her smile.

Bucky rose to his feet, eyes wide and his jaw hanging a bit.

Blushing, the witch shrugged as she stepped into the living room. "Peggy did my hair and makeup. Figured it would be best to work out how I'll look for the party now. I have regular clothes she bought, too. I could . . . I could go change."

"No, no." He smiled, though still appeared a bit awestruck. "You look amazing."

She nodded, aware of the other two occupants of the living room watching them, but all she seemed able to focus on was that smile of his. "What can I say? I clean up nice."

"So," Bucky said, stepping closer to take her hand in his, "this mean you'll be my date on Friday?"

Hermione smirked, knowing full-well that if Harry were here, he'd point out that this look was her determined face. "Bucky Barnes, the time vortex,  _itself_ , couldn't keep me from saying yes."


End file.
